him.
"Clint, I'm sorry!" she whispered, realizing at last what
was wrong. She'd stung his pride, and now he wanted
revenge…
"You don't know what shame is," he growled, bending his head,
"but I'm going to teach you."
"Clint…!" Her voice broke on the pleading cry, just as his
hard mouth went down against hers and taught her what a punishment
a kiss could be.
She tried to struggle against the merciless hard arms that
held her, but she couldn't get loose, she couldn't
breathe…yielding to the strength that was so much greater than
her own.
Then, like magic, the crush of his muscular arms eased,
cradling her now as gently as he'd hurt her before. The
pressure of his mouth lessened, became soft and caressing,
coaxing.
"Maggie," he whispered against her bruised lips, sliding his
hands under the hem of her blouse to burn against the bare flesh of
her back. "Maggie, you feel like silk."
Her fingers curled into the cotton of his shirt as she hung
there, breathless, while he toyed with her mouth, taunting it with brief, biting kisses
that kindled fires in her mind. His lean, warm hands pressed her
even closer, rasping slightly as they brushed her smooth skin.
'Touch me," he murmured huskily. "Touch me, honey."
Involuntarily, her slender hands moved away from the cotton
shirt onto the warm, bronzed muscles of his broad chest,
tangling in the thick cushion of curling black hair as she
caressed him blindly, feeling the sensuous masculinity of him,
drowning-in the tangy scent of his cologne as sensation after
sensation washed over her.
"Like that, hellcat," he murmured, "that's it. Maggie, open your
mouth, just a little. I want to taste it…"
Burning with the hunger he created in her, she yielded
mindlessly as he opened her soft lips and drew her completely
against the long, warm body, building the pressure until he heard
the moan smothered under his mouth.
"Did that milksop fiance of yours ever kiss you like this,
Maggie?" he growled huskily. "Did he stir you until you moaned
against his mouth?"
"Oh, don't," she pleaded dizzily, her slender hands making a
halfhearted protest against the pleasure his were causing.
"Why not? You want it," he whispered. His mouth brushed lazily
over hers, open and moist and deliberately sensuous. "You want my
hands and my eyes on every inch of this sweet young body, don't
you, Maggie? Answer me.
Don't you?"
Her voice broke on a sob. "Yes!" she wept. "Damn you, yes!"
"Ask me nice and sweet, Maggie," he taunted. "Say, please Clint,
say it, Irish. Whisper it…"
Her eyes opened slowly, bright with longing and love. "Please,"
she breathed against his hard, torturing mouth. "Please,
Clint…"
His hands contracted on her waist as he suddenly thrust her
roughly away. A cold, merciless smile tugged at his mouth. "And that, Miss Kirk, evens
the score. You wanted something to be ashamed of. You've got
it!"
It took seconds for her to realize what he'd said, what he'd
done. Her face went red, then white. Deathly white. Ashamed
of…even the score… She gaped at him numbly, feeling as though
she'd been slammed with all the strength in that tanned, lean
hand.
He lit a cigarette calmly, his narrow eyes flicking her stunned
expression as he snapped the lighter shut and pocketed it. "You've
been following me around like a damned pet dog since you were about
eight years old," he remarked. "For future reference, I'm tired of
it. I won't be a stand-in for a jilting fiance, or a balm for a
broken heart. From now on, if you want to be made love to, look in
some other direction. I'm tired of giving you lessons." Her face
went, if possible, even whiter. Her mouth refused to form the words
that would tell him how hateful she thought he was. Inside, she felt
beaten, bruised. Tears misted on her long lashes, tears that she
turned away to keep him from seeing. She went blindly toward the
door.
"No comeback, Maggie?" he chided.
Her hand touched the doorknob.
"Would you like me to kiss you goodbye?" he
"Clint, I'm sorry!" she whispered, realizing at last what
was wrong. She'd stung his pride, and now he wanted
revenge…
"You don't know what shame is," he growled, bending his head,
"but I'm going to teach you."
"Clint…!" Her voice broke on the pleading cry, just as his
hard mouth went down against hers and taught her what a punishment
a kiss could be.
She tried to struggle against the merciless hard arms that
held her, but she couldn't get loose, she couldn't
breathe…yielding to the strength that was so much greater than
her own.
Then, like magic, the crush of his muscular arms eased,
cradling her now as gently as he'd hurt her before. The
pressure of his mouth lessened, became soft and caressing,
coaxing.
"Maggie," he whispered against her bruised lips, sliding his
hands under the hem of her blouse to burn against the bare flesh of
her back. "Maggie, you feel like silk."
Her fingers curled into the cotton of his shirt as she hung
there, breathless, while he toyed with her mouth, taunting it with brief, biting kisses
that kindled fires in her mind. His lean, warm hands pressed her
even closer, rasping slightly as they brushed her smooth skin.
'Touch me," he murmured huskily. "Touch me, honey."
Involuntarily, her slender hands moved away from the cotton
shirt onto the warm, bronzed muscles of his broad chest,
tangling in the thick cushion of curling black hair as she
caressed him blindly, feeling the sensuous masculinity of him,
drowning-in the tangy scent of his cologne as sensation after
sensation washed over her.
"Like that, hellcat," he murmured, "that's it. Maggie, open your
mouth, just a little. I want to taste it…"
Burning with the hunger he created in her, she yielded
mindlessly as he opened her soft lips and drew her completely
against the long, warm body, building the pressure until he heard
the moan smothered under his mouth.
"Did that milksop fiance of yours ever kiss you like this,
Maggie?" he growled huskily. "Did he stir you until you moaned
against his mouth?"
"Oh, don't," she pleaded dizzily, her slender hands making a
halfhearted protest against the pleasure his were causing.
"Why not? You want it," he whispered. His mouth brushed lazily
over hers, open and moist and deliberately sensuous. "You want my
hands and my eyes on every inch of this sweet young body, don't
you, Maggie? Answer me.
Don't you?"
Her voice broke on a sob. "Yes!" she wept. "Damn you, yes!"
"Ask me nice and sweet, Maggie," he taunted. "Say, please Clint,
say it, Irish. Whisper it…"
Her eyes opened slowly, bright with longing and love. "Please,"
she breathed against his hard, torturing mouth. "Please,
Clint…"
His hands contracted on her waist as he suddenly thrust her
roughly away. A cold, merciless smile tugged at his mouth. "And that, Miss Kirk, evens
the score. You wanted something to be ashamed of. You've got
it!"
It took seconds for her to realize what he'd said, what he'd
done. Her face went red, then white. Deathly white. Ashamed
of…even the score… She gaped at him numbly, feeling as though
she'd been slammed with all the strength in that tanned, lean
hand.
He lit a cigarette calmly, his narrow eyes flicking her stunned
expression as he snapped the lighter shut and pocketed it. "You've
been following me around like a damned pet dog since you were about
eight years old," he remarked. "For future reference, I'm tired of
it. I won't be a stand-in for a jilting fiance, or a balm for a
broken heart. From now on, if you want to be made love to, look in
some other direction. I'm tired of giving you lessons." Her face
went, if possible, even whiter. Her mouth refused to form the words
that would tell him how hateful she thought he was. Inside, she felt
beaten, bruised. Tears misted on her long lashes, tears that she
turned away to keep him from seeing. She went blindly toward the
door.
"No comeback, Maggie?" he chided.
Her hand touched the doorknob.
"Would you like me to kiss you goodbye?" he
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